


Disadvantageous

by in_lighter_ink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crush, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Spoilers, Wordcount: 100-500
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_lighter_ink/pseuds/in_lighter_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"All lives end. All hearts break. Caring is not an advantage."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disadvantageous

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Laud Lestrade!](http://dilestrade.livejournal.com/146959.html) fest.
> 
> Prompt: When Mycroft says: “All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage," he's thinking of his first partner, who died; his second, who left him; and Lestrade.

"Too much damage," they'd said, and "Kinder."

Later, alone in their -- his, oh God, just his now -- flat, he'd laughed, bitter and harsh and sobbing, at the presumption of the word.

The edge of the coffin cut into his shoulder as he walked, trying to concentrate solely on remaining in step with William's father, his uncles, his brother, his childhood friend. It was the first thing he'd felt since the doctor had turned the machines off.

Strange that William could feel so heavy when Mycroft felt so hollow.

 _All lives end._

***

"I can't do this anymore, Mycroft. I'm sorry, but I need someone who doesn't have to lie to me when I ask how his day's been."

"Stephen. Please. You've known from the beginning that I..." Mycroft stopped. The cuffs of his shirt, the parting of his hair, let alone the expression on his face and the bag at his feet: there was nothing more to say.

"I thought I could handle it, I wanted... I tried, Mycroft. I promise you, I tried."

There was a long moment, loud with words unspoken.

"I know."

Mycroft did not hear the door close for the dull roaring in his ears.

 _All hearts are broken._

***

His eyes were bloodshot, his vision blurred by too many nights spent behind his desk. The work was an inadequate escape from the empty home that awaited him.

For a moment, anger -- white-hot and directed at Sherlock -- flashed through him. Lestrade would have found out about the P.E. teacher soon enough on his own. Would it not have been kinder to...

Ah, but 'kinder' was too large a word for Sherlock's vocabulary, too difficult a concept for his philosophy.

The anger subsided.

Mycroft watched the video feed a moment longer, watched Lestrade rub at his eyes yet again, then closed the window. He pulled up another file, a fifteen-second clip, saved only a few weeks before. The clip of Lestrade, speaking on his mobile, then grinning (bright and boyish and hopeful, a sight almost too bitter for Mycroft to bear) at the device for a few moments after the call ended.

"Of course I'll come to Dorset," Mycroft lip-read.

He was unsure which image caused him more pain.

 _Caring is not an advantage._


End file.
